


A Fantabulous Night (To Make Romance)

by LylaRivers



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Is A Pine Tree In Sunglasses, NSFW, Oral Sex, a non explicitly jewish good omens fic? from this author? its more likely than you think!, both of them have Been Through Shit and are only now starting to deal with it, but its not exactly a fade to black scenario like i usually do either, experienced!aziraphale/virgin!crowley, honestly it's not super graphic, no beta no proofreading we fall like crowley, theyre both bad at communicating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21627238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: After the Ritz, it’s the most natural thing in the world to head back to the bookshop, and proceed to get drunk off their asses. The world gets to keep on turning, and Crowley gets to keep mooning after one stuffy angel who’s oblivious to any love that doesn’t start with a capital “L”.Realizations are had after the events of the show.  Because no one has ever written this particular fic before.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	A Fantabulous Night (To Make Romance)

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first posted smut fic :) I one hundred pecent did not mean to write this this way, but... uhhh.... what can you do? So have all of my very favorite Good Omens tropes all in one place (besides Jewish Good Omens, which miraculously did not make an appearance here). 
> 
> Title is from “Moondance” first recorded by Van Morrison. I happened to listen to the Michael Bublé recording while writing. 
> 
> Please be kind my dudes. I rarely write smut, cause I'm ace as hell- but apparently there’s something about these ineffable dumbasses that brings out the smut ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

After the Ritz, it’s the most natural thing in the world to head back to the bookshop, and proceed to get drunk off their asses. Crowley feels almost giddy with relief- they’ve managed to outwit Heaven and Hell, and stop the Apocalypse. Not as though they really did that much in terms of stopping the Apocalypse, though- it was really all down to Adam and his friends. 

But still. The world gets to keep on turning, and he gets to keep mooning after one stuffy angel who’s oblivious to any love that doesn’t start with a capital “L”. 

Aziraphale wanders around his newly revived bookshop, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, my goodness, my dear. Just look! All my prophecy books are back to rights! And the bibles! Oh thank Adam.”

“I did tell you, angel,” Crowley says. 

“That boy is a wonder,” Aziraphale says. “And to think, he got that way all on his own, without any divine intervention at all!”

“All things considered, it was probably just as well we mucked it all up,” Crowley says. “Can you imagine if Warlock had actually been the anti-Christ?”

His heart (inasmuch as he has one- given how unnecessary it is) thuds to an abrupt stop. Warlock. His sweet hellspawn. 

“Crowley? What is it, my dear?” Aziraphlae asks, noting his sudden distress. 

“They took him to Meggido,” Crowley whisperers. “Warlock. What did they do with him, when the found out he was the wrong boy?”

Aziraphale abandons his bookshelf, and comes to stand next to Crowley. “I’m sure he’s just fine,” the angel says reassuringly. “Hell had bigger problems than Warlock after they discovered they had the wrong boy.” 

Crowley frowns, and shakes himself. “As you said. Just as well.”

Aziraphlae takes his hand. “I rather think everything turned out for the best, don’t you?” He asks. 

Crowley forces a small smile onto his face. “Well, the world hasn’t turned into a puddle of goo, so I’d agree that things are far better than they could have been.”

“And to be free of our respective employers!” Aziraphale says brightly. “I would never have dreamed that possible! Why, I hardly know what to do first?”

“What do you say we go into your wine cellar, see what the anti-Christ has regifted you, and crack open a bottle of whatever has the highest alcohol content?” Crowley asks. 

“That sounds like a delightful plan, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees. They trapise into the back room, and take stock of Aziraphale’s alcohol stores. “My goodness,” Aziraphale says, walking through the room with wide eyes. “It appears our good anti-Christ has restocked every bottle of alcohol I’ve ever had!” 

“Please tell me that includes some of that Viking honey mead,” Crowley begs. “That remains the most potent alcohol I’ve ever had.” 

Aziraphale dithers around for a few moments, looking. “Oh, yes,” he says at length. “Look here!” 

“Grab that, then. And maybe something else, for once we get the party rolling,” Crowley says. 

“Oh, yes, for sure,” Aziraphlae says. He takes hold of several bottles, and they return to the back room of the bookshop. 

Crowley miracles up two glasses. “To the world!” He says again.

Aziraphale pours a generous amount of the honey mead into each of their glasses. “To the world. To continued life!” 

Crowley tips his glass back, and chugs several glugs of the honey mead. He’s already pleasantly tipsy from the champagne at the Ritz, so it doesn’t take long before he gets to roaringly drunk. The two of them sit on the horrible tartan sofa, and knock back cup after cup of mead. 

“I asked the Lord of Hell for a rubber duck! And then… and then... when Michael came back, I asked her for a towel!” Aziraphale says, words slurring.

“And did she give it to you?” Crowley asks.

“Well, yeah! What do you expect from an angel- even the Warrior of Heaven- when you find a demon bathing in Holy Water?” Aziraphale asks. “She was flabbergasted!”

Crowley snickers, and edges closer to the angel. “Well, I breathed Hellfire at the archangels. I’ve never seen Gabriel’s dumb smug face look so terrified!” 

“Oh, *hic*, dear. You didn’t actually hurt them, did you, Crowley?” Azriaraphale asks. 

“Nah, ‘course not. That would bring the wrath of Heaven down on us,” Crowley says, ignoring the fact that he desperately wanted to spit that Hellfire out further and longer, incinerating the beings who would dare to destroy his beloved angel. “I just went far enough the scare the Heaven out of them, so they’d leave you alone.” 

Aziraphale actually giggles. “That was rather sweet of you, dear.”

“‘M a demon, ‘m not sweet,” Crowley slurs. Nevermind how much he wanted to do for the sake of Aziraphale’s protection- hearing the words said out loud is too much.

“‘S not a four letter word,” Aziraphale says, words clumping together. “I can call you sweet ‘cause it’s not a four letter word, which you keep saying demons arent. You’re so thoughtful, and delightful, and wonderful, and…” 

Crowley does the only logical thing, at this point. He kisses Aziraphale to shut him up. 

They break apart in a dazed stupor. Aziraphale backs up, eyes widening in surprise. Crowley has time to register how  _ soft _ the angel’s lips are, before it dawns on him what a stupid thing he just did. He stares at the angel in dawning horror. For Satan’s sake, did he really just do that?

“Oh, no, no no no,” Crowley says softly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, angel, Aziraphale, I won’t do that again, I don’t know why I…”

“Crowely,” Aziraphlae says, cutting him off. Crowley cuts off his helpless babbling with a short gasp. “Crowley, my dear, take off your glasses.” 

Crowley whines a little in the back of his throat, but does as he was asked. Golden snake eyes meet blue, then Crowley looks away abruptly. 

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowly murmurs, ashamed. “Aziraphale. I don’t know…”

Cool, soft fingers touch his chin, and force him to look up. Aziraphlae meets his gaze calmly. “Crowley, my dear. Do I look upset?”

Crowley searches for the disgust, the hatred that he’s sure is lurking just below the surface, but finds nothing. “No,” he says, slowly. 

“I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression, my dear,” Aziraphale says, still supernaturally calm. 

“Can we just forget this ever happened?” Crowley asks desperately. He doesn’t know what Aziraphale is playing at, but he’s had his heart (again, inasmuch as he has one) toyed with plenty over the past week. 

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m rather making a mess of this, aren’t I?” Aziraphale says. “I think we’d best sober up, don’t you?” 

Crowley whines again, but does as requested. This is it. This is the ‘I’ve tolerated you and your sad pining for as long as I can, but this is a step too far’. The end of a six thousand year old friendship. 

Aziraphale’s hand caresses his cheek, moving up from his chin. “You took me by surprise, Crowley. But I wouldn’t say it's a bad surprise. Far from it.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowely asks, daring to hope, against all hope. 

“Yes, Crowley dear?”

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying that I think I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale says. “And that I have been for a while.”

_ I don’t even like you. You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

“Since when?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale smiles, cradling Crowely’s head with both hands (as if he were something precious, something to be protected). “Oh, at least since the church, in 1941,” he says. “But probably long before that. Crowley, dear, can I kiss you again?” 

“Guh,” Crowley says.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, and brings their faces together gently. Crowley closes his eyes, savoring the skinsoft feel of the angel’s lips against his own. He’s wanted this forever, since he first crawled onto this planet and heard this dumbass say that he gave away his G-d given flaming sword to the disgraced humans. 

And now he has it, the angel holding him close, and kissing him with reckless abandon. Crowley savors the warmth and gentleness the angel treats him with, desperate for more. If this is all he ever gets, it will have to be enough. I has to be. 

All too soon, it’s over, and Aziraphale pulls away from him, hand still cradling his head. “Lovely, my dear. You really are magnificent.”

Something twists in Crowley’s stomach. “Why do you say things like that?” He asks.

“They’re all true, my dear, every last one of them,” Aziraphale says. 

“How can you think that? I’m a demon!” Crowley says. “I ruin things. Everything I touch! Even the humans. Especially this! You’ve been rejecting me for six thousand years!” 

“Crowley, what do you think would happen if Downstairs found out that you’d been fraternizing with the Enemy- not just sharing workload, as we’d been doing, but truly  _ fraternizing _ ,” Aziraphale asks. “What would Hell do to you if they knew you were in love with an angel?” 

A pit forms in Crowley’s stomach- one that has nothing to do with his previous anxiety. “Holy Water would be getting off lightly,” he murmurs. 

“Exactly, my dear. I couldn’t… I had to be strong, for the both of us,” Aziraphale says. His hands drop to Crowley’s sides, taking both of the demon’s hands in his. “I’ve wanted this for so long, but as you said, your side doesn’t send rude notes.” 

Crowley looks down. “‘M sorry, angel.” 

“Whatever for, my dear boy?” 

“You’ve been… protecting me!” Crowley says. “From my own side!”

“We’re on our own side, now,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve been cruel to you, my dear boy, dreadfully so. But now more than ever, we’re on our own side. And I’m terribly sorry for being cruel to you, as I have been.” 

“I didn’t… I wanted… I was more in love than I had sense,” Crowley murmurs, suddenly ashamed again. 

“Oh Lord, what fools these lovers be,” Aziraphale mis-quotes. Crowley meets his eyes. The angel is smiling gently, staring at him steadily. “I am sorry, my dear.” 

“Why?” Crowley asks. “I was the one who pushed too fast, who wanted more than we could give.”

“And you think that I didn’t want more?” Aziraphale asks. “No, no, my dear. I’ve done harm here, too, stringing you along and rejecting you most cruelly. I too wanted more than we were in a position to give, so I subtly encouraged the smaller gestures of affection. If I had truly been good, I would have frozen you out from the start.” 

Crowley beings to feel bold- far bolder than he ever has. “We’re here now, though,” he says. “On our own side.” 

“On our own side,” the angel echoes him, agreeing. 

“Angel?”

“Yes dear?” 

“Take me to bed?” Crowley asks, hopeful beyond all hope. Aziraphale scoops him up, and carries him upstairs in his haste. 

***

Aziraphale’s bedroom looks as though it hasn’t seen any use in decades. Before depositing Crowley on the bed, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the dust vanishes. 

“Angel, wha…” Crowley asks as the angel sets him down gently on the bed.

“You know I don’t sleep, dearest,” Aziraphale says, climbing onto the four poster with him. 

“It still smells like dust,” Crowley complains. 

“At least it doesn’t taste like dust, too,” Aziraphlae says tartly. Crowley leans over and kisses him thoroughly, the only plausible response to this utter ridiculousness. 

There are certain advantages to being a snake at your core. Crowley takes full advantage of these advantages- particularly, the ability to curl himself entirely around the angel, and lengthen his tongue. Aziraphale moans into his mouth, and clutches him tighter, pushing the two of them even more firmly together. 

They’re close enough that Crowley can feel the moment when Aziraphale’s Effort makes itself known. “Naughty angel,” Crowley says, hand reaching down to cup the Effort. “How long have you been making an Effort for, hmm?”

Aziraphale blushes. “Oh, several centuries, at least,” he says. “The trousers don’t sit quite right without one, you see.”

“Oh, yes, it’s all about the trousers,” Crowley teases. “I’m sure that’s exactly why you’ve been manifesting a dick for the past few centuries.”

“Well, it’s rather hard to sleep with anyone if you don’t have one, as well.” 

“You… what now?” Crowley asks, freezing in place. 

“Surely you've done the same, dear?” Aziraphale says. “I  _ was _ a member of a discreet gentleman’s club for many years. You didn’t think I was just  _ dancing  _ there, now did you?”

“Ngk.” 

Aziraphale rolls them, so that they’re lying side by side on the bed, facing each other. “Crowley, dear?” 

‘“Just, a surprise is all, angel,” Crowley says. “I didn’t think that Upstairs sanctioned those sorts of behaviors.” 

“The sin of homosexuality is an entirely manufactured one, by the translators who worked on the King James Bible,” Aziraphale says haughtily. “You do know he only commissioned that piece so that he could sleep with his various mistresses in peace. Or… whatever you call an out of marriage affair when both individuals involved are male.”

“Guh, yeah, I knew that, angel. I’m just surprised that you…”

“You didn’t?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley wants to feel ashamed, but Aziraphale is looking at him with such tenderness and  _ understanding _ that it’s hard for the feeling to take root.

“Wasn’t part of the job description,” Crowley mutters. “‘S not my job to be an incubus. Or a succubus. I didn’t exactly have any interest in it, so…”

“Oh, dear. I’m… I had no idea,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, dear.” 

“Why ever for?” Crowley asks. 

“I just assumed, I suppose,” Aziraphale says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I don’t have any interest in humans,” Crowley says softly. “You, however…” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Still, I shouldn’t have just…”

“Angel, stop apologizing and kiss me,” Crowley orders. Aziraphale obeys with alacrity. 

Crowley spends several moments with his angel’s tongue buried in his throat. “So,” he says, pulling back. “Learn anything interesting at this discreet gentleman’s club of yours? Anything worth sharing?”

“You know, I did,” Airaphale says. He lowers his head thoughtfully to Crowley’s neck, and sucks on it, hard enough to bruise. Crowley whines, as the angel’s tongue swirls around the spot he had just marked. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasps. 

“Did you like that, my dear boy? My sweet darling?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley feels his eyes go wide, a whimper forming at the back of his throat. “Zzira.”

“Yes, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, cataloguing his reaction. 

“You can’t jusssst sssaay things like that,” Crowley says. 

“Darling. Sweetheart. Dearest,” Aziraphale says, punctuating each remark with a kiss to another part of the demon’s head and neck. 

“Zzzira!” Crowley whines. He pulls the angel’s head down to meet his mouth, and starts scrambling at the angel’s antiquated waistcoat. Aziraphale shrugs out of the coat, and Crowley tosses it to the ground. 

“Careful with the coat, dear,” Aziraphale admonished. “Oh, my.”

“ _ What _ ?” Crowley growls. 

“It’s just, you look lovely with freckles,” Aziraphale says. 

“Don’t have freckles.”

Aziraphale smiles smugly. “You do right now.” 

Crowley scrambles for his phone in his back jeans pocket, and turns on the selfie camera. Sure enough, his face is covered in freckles. 

“Wha…”

“Haven’t you ever heard that angels kisses are the cause of freckles?” Aziraphale asks. “I suppose it’s true.”

“You sssupose?” Crowley asks. “Thought you would have known that for sssure.”

“Mmmh. Wasn’t much for kissing there, as it were,” Aziraphale says, taking the opportunity of Crowley’s distraction to divest himself of waistcoat, vest, and his collared shirt. He’s still wearing an undershirt underneath, but his forearms are bare. Crowley’s mind abruptly short circuits. 

Arms. Wrists.  _ Forearms _ . Changing fashions being what they are, Crowley is hardly a stranger to skin- but Aziraphale’s skin, specifically? That’s rarer than a sunny day in London in winter. He’s been putting layers on since they first came into fashion, and never quite got to the point of shedding them when it became fashionable. A sighting of his wrist was rare- usually only when reaching for high up books. To suddenly see the whole arm unclothed, up past the  _ elbows _ ? 

Well. If there was any lingering doubt in Crowley that this was happening- truly happening- this sight would banish it. 

“Ngk,” Crowley says intelligently. 

Aziraphale has the audacity to smile at him, the smug bastard. “Yes, dearest?” he asks. 

Words are hard. Crowley once again takes full advantage of his snake nature, and twines himself around Aziraphale. The angel pushes Crowley’s jacket off of his arms, and tosses the offending item on the ground by the bed. They kiss for several more moments, working various of clothing off of each other. Aziraphale unwinds Crowley’s scarf, and tosses it away from the bed. Crowley shimmies out of his own shirt, leaving his top bare. Azirapale’s bare arm brushes against his chest, and he nearly discorperates right then and there. 

“Alright, darling?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Yessss,” Crowley hisses, apparently incapable of controlling his snake like hiss. He plucks at Aziraphale’s white undershirt. “Get rid of this, angel, or I’m ripping it off you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Be my guest, my dear,” he says.

Crowley doesn’t need to be told twice. He lets his fingernails lengthen- barely even a miracle, for a demon- and rips the offending article of clothing to shreds. He tosses the white strips away from them. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, stroking Crowley’s back. 

Crowley can barely take his eyes away from the angel’s bare chest. “Yeah,” he agrees, breathless.

“Don’t tease, dear,” Aziraphale says. “I know this form is hardly in vogue now, not like it was in ancient times, but…”

“Who told you that?” Crowley growls. 

“I hardly need to be told,” Aziraphale tuts. “One only needs eyes.”

Crtowley twists them so he’s square over the angel. “You were hardly bothered by physical forms when you spent nearly eleven years wearing those hideous false teeth at the Dowlings’. Why now, angel?” 

“It’s nothing much,” Aziraphale says cagily. 

“Ssspill it, angel,” Crowley hisses. 

“Oh, dear. It’s just that… well… there was a comment that I’d perhaps gotten… a bit soft,” Aziraphale says, biting his lower lip. 

“Who sssaid that?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale mutters something unintelligible. 

“What was that, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

Crowley snarls. “That sanctimonious, self aggrandizing bastard. How dare he! I should have actually hit him with the Hellfire- would have served that smug bastard right!”

“It’s really nothing, dear,” Aziraphale says nervously. “Really! And anyways, he’s right! I don’t look much like the warrior of heaven I was created to be!”

“Screw him,” Crowley snaps. “You are perfect just the way you are, angel.” 

“Really, now…” Aziraphale starts to say.

“Perfect,” Crowley repeats, and goes about showing Aziraphale just what he means. He maps every inch of the angel’s stomach in kisses and nips. Aziraphale squirms under him, but Crowley refuses to let up. “It’s not easy to be soft,” Crowley says. 

“What do you mean, dear?”

“You’ve survived the whole of human suffering, for six thousand years, angel,” Crowley says. “That’s enough to turn anyone hard and uncaring. But not you.”

“Or you,” Aziraphale says. 

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you,” Crowley says, ignoring the things that bit of praise does to his stomach. “Tell me. What do you think would happen to  _ Gabriel _ if he were down here for so long?”

“I couldn’t say,” Aziraphale demures. 

“I could,” Crowley says. “He’d get hard- harder than he already is, that is. He’d be so inflexible that he’d break at the slightest provocation. Now, you?” He runs a hand across Aziraphale’s soft belly. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale squacks. 

“Yes, angel?” Crowley asks. He leans down and presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s stomach. “Did you have something to say?” 

Aziraphale hooks his legs around Crowley’s back, and pulls the demon on top of him. “Really, my dear. You are incorrigible.” 

Crowley brushes a hand along the angel’s still-clothed leg. “Correct,” he murmurs. “Unable to be corriged. That’s me.”

“That  _ tickles _ , dear,” Aziraphale says. 

“Does it, now?” Crowley asks. He brings his hand to Aziraphale’s waist, and slips a finger under the waistband. “Does it tickle when I do this?” 

Aziraphale makes a breathy sound that Crowley had previously only associated with particularly well made chocolate truffles. “Crowley, darling.”

Emboldened, Crowley slides his hand around to Aziraphale’s front, only to be stymied by the series of buttons and ties there. “Angel, what in Someone’s name is going on here?” he demands. 

“Zippers ruin the lay of the trousers,” Aziraphale says primly. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. Only Aziraphale. Rather than messing around with the ties, he snaps his fingers and both of their trousers blink out of existence, to reappear folded on the chair near the bed. 

Now they’re almost entirely skin to skin, with the exception of their undergarments. Crowley could nearly  _ cry _ from happiness with how good it feels. He’s been dreaming of this for centuries- what it would be like to peel layer after layer off of the angel, to get down to bare skin. 

“I was rather looking forward to taking those off of you!” Aziraphale says, affronted. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “I miracle them on and off anyways, angel. Too tight.”

“That explains a good deal,” Aziraphale murmurs. He slides one hand around Crowley’s backside to grab a handful of his rear end. Crowley is so surprised that he drops onto the angel’s stomach, unable to hold himself up. “Delightful, my dear,” Aziraphale says. 

“Angel,” Crowley whines. 

“Yes, dearest?” 

“Ngk,” Crowley articulates. His brain has fully gone offline, and all executive functions have promptly crashed. 

“That’s a lovely little sound you make for me,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Such a good darling.”

Crowley whines and clutches at the angel’s neck. It’s too… it’s so soft. He isn’t made for this kind of tenderness, not anymore. 

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale approves, and flips them so that Crowley is once again at his angel’s mercy. “Being so very good for me.” He runs his soft, manicured hands all over Crowley’s body, chasing fingers with tongue, punctuating each compliment with a kiss. 

“Angel,” Crowley whimpers. 

Aziraphale pulls back to observe the writhing mess of demon on his bed. “Is there something you’d like, Crowley dear? You know you only need to ask.”

“Pleassse,” Crowley hisses, unable to articulate further.

“Please what?” Aziraphale asks primly. 

“Bassstard.”

“Mmh. I can think of a few things to do with such a good little demon. What do you think, dear? Dealers choice?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Whatever you want,” Crowley says, unable to divine what exactly Aziraphale is planning, but not particularly caring. Aziraphale ducks his head, and pulls off Crowley’s pants with one smooth motion and then… sweet Someone in Someplace, that is Aziraphale’s mouth! “Guh,” Crowley says intelligently. 

Aziraphale swirls his tongue around, and Crowley is  _ sure _ that he’s going to discorperate this instant. “You are more delicious than any dessert on the Ritz’s menu,” Aziraphale says, mouth sliding off with an obscene  _ pop _ . “I always thought you would, sweet thing that you are.”

Crowley whines, and Aziraphale returns to his self appointed task. Just when Crowley’s sure that he’s going to explode, Aziraphale slides his mouth away. 

“Zira!” Crowley protests, unable to form any additional syllables. 

“Oh, don’t worry, dearest. I’m not done with you yet,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You’ve been so good for me, so patient, so kind.” 

Crowley whimpers at the words. “Angel.”

“I know, dear boy,” Aziraphale says. He reaches an arm over to the nightstand next to the bed, the top of which is covered in books. The angel opens a drawer, and pulls out a small bottle. “You’re being so patient, dear,” the angel praises. 

Crowley’s so busy squirming that it comes as a complete surprise to feel one of the angel’s fingers teasing at his hole. He hisses in surprise, and Aziraphale freezes in place. 

“Dear?” Aziraphale asks, hand still as a rock. 

“Good, jussst sssurprisssing.”

“I’ll go slow for you,” Aziraphale promises, and Crowley wants to cry from the irony. 

The finger starts to wiggle, and Crowley makes a noise a lot like a teapot coming to boil. Aziraphale leans over him, alternating between kissing parts of his body and murmuring words of praise. “Doing so  _ good _ , for me, darling, dearest, sweetheart.” The angel radiates love and happiness and joy, an almost overwhelming sea of feelings- all directed at him. 

Demons can’t feel Love- that’s a well established fact. In fact, it’s commonly held that demons can’t feel any positive emotions, at all. But when you have a very determined angel broadcasting his love (both upper and lower case) directly at you… well, Crowley defies any theologian who would claim it’s impossible for a demon to feel  _ l _ ove.

One finger becomes two, becomes three. Crowley loses track of time and space entirely. All that matters is the angel’s hands on him, and the steady stream of praise spilling out of his mouth.  _ How _ is Lust a sin, when it feels so blessed  _ good _ ?

“Are you ready for me, dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

Ready? He has no idea how to tell. He’s been desperate for the angel to do exactly this for nearly six thousand years- why does a few more minutes either way matter, when he’s finally in bed with his angel? “Ngk,” Crowley manages. 

The hand  _ not _ wiggling around inside him comes up to cup his chin. Blue eyes meet golden. “I’m afraid that I need a more explicit verbal response then that, dearest,” Aziraphale says firmly. 

“Yesssss,” Crowley hisses, capturing the angel’s mouth with his own. 

The angel slides his fingers out, and Crowley whimpers from the sudden lack of fullness. With his free, dry hand, Aziraphale cards his fingers through the demon’s hair. Then, Aziraphale scoops Crowley up for the second time that day, and sets the demon firmly in his lap. Crowley wraps his legs around the angel, desperate for  _ more _ contact. 

Something thick and hard teases at his entrance. “More,” Crowley begs. “Angel, please, more.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, dear,” Aziraphale says, still moving excruciatingly slowly. 

“‘M not a human. ‘M not gonna break. I can take anything, Zzira, ‘m a demon,” Crowley says, wiggling slightly. 

“You’re being such a good,  _ patient _ demon for me,” Aziraphale says, never stopping his slow slide. “Taking everything I can give you so well. I promise I’ll take care of you, darling, you just need to be patient a little longer for me.”

“Zzzira,” Crowley whines. 

The angel pushes the last bit in, and Crowley is  _ deliciously _ full. “So good for me, my darling, my dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs as he slowly starts to rock his hips. “You look so beautiful like this.”

“Aaangel,” Crowley moans, unable to make words. A part of him is extremely impressed that Aziraphale is still capable of coherent speech, let alone anything more intelligent. 

“So beautiful, so good,” Aziraphale breathes against his skin, fingers everywhere, hips setting a near-punishing pace. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, my gorgeous demon.” Crowley whines and completely whites out. He’s barely aware of the angel’s climax hot on the heels of his own. 

***

Crowley comes to his senses on the world's softest pillow, with soft throw draped over him. “Zira?” he asks sleepily. 

His pillow chuckles. “I was a little worried I broke you, dear.”

Crowley tilts his head to look at the angel. “‘M good,” he slurs. “‘M ssso good.”

The angel runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “Good. Do you want to sleep?” he asks. “You look tired, and I wouldn’t blame you after the week we have.”

“Nah,” Crowley mumbles. “Rather be with you.”

“I'll still be here when you wake,” Aziraphale promises. 

Crowley snuggles more firmly into the angel’s chest. “Wanna be ssssure.”

“My dear?”

“You were  _ gone,”  _ Crowley says. “You were gone and the bookshop wasss on fire, and I thought you were dead- really dead, not just dissscorperated.”

“Your best frien… you mean  _ I _ was the best friend who you lost?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Don’t be ssstupid angel, who did you think it was? Ligur? Fuck that. No, I thought… I thought it was Hellfire, in the shop. Armageddon was hours away, and you were  _ dead _ and I didn’t know where the real anti-Christ was, but it didn’t matter ‘cause I don’t want to live in a world that doesn’t have you, anyways. So I was just gonna get piss drunk and wait for the inevitable.”

Aziraphale tightens his grip around Crowley’s shoulders. “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry that you went through that. I love you, my darling, my dearest.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley mumbles. 

“If you want to rest, I promise that I won’t go anywhere,” Aziraphale says. 

“I know,” Crowley agrees. “But I’d rather be with you, anyways. We’re free agents now, and I’d like to savor that freedom.”

The angel presses a kiss to his forehead. “Very well, then.” Crowley curls into the angel’s warmth- better than the warmest sunning rock, better than the hottest heat lamp. 

They lay together in a comfortable silence for several minutes, delighting in each other’s mere presence. 

“You know, if I had known that compliments got you so worked up, I might have tried it earlier- sides or no,” Aziraphale comments, out of the blue. 

Crowley tilts his head up to look at the angel. “Wha…? Sorry, what did you think was happening at the convent when I pushed you against a wall and snarled that demons weren’t nice?”

Aziraphale does that endearing little full body wiggle. “Oh,  _ yes _ , that was rather nice.”

“To be slammed against a  _ wall _ ?” Crowley asks incredulously. 

“Well, of the two times I’ve been slammed into a wall in this past week, I at least knew you wouldn’t hurt me. Really, it was rather exciting,” the angel says, tone starting serious but growing lighter. 

Crowley latches on to the important part of that conversation. He props himself up on his elbows to fully look at the angel. “Zira.  _ Who _ slammed you into a wall, besides me?” The angel dithers, and Crowley feels his face harden. “Please tell me, angel.” 

“Now, you have to promise you won’t overreact,” Aziraphale says, eyes looking away. 

Now, that’s hardly fair. The angel’s idea of an overreaction is likely to align with Crowley’s idea of a perfectly natural response. 

Aziraphale seems to read this reluctance in his eyes. He sighs, and runs his hand through Crowley’s hair. “Well you see, shortly after you drove off, I was confronted by Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon.”

“Confronted?” Crowley asks, an edge of wrath beginning to touch his voice. He has a very bad feeling about this, very bad indeed. 

“They wanted… they were ordering me to come back to Heaven, to arm up to fight at Megiddo,” Aziraphale says. “When I said that I had business left to finish… they grew… ah, very angry. They… uh… shoved me into the wall outside of the bookshop, and then… Sandalphon punched me. In the gut.”

Crowley narrows his eyes, and a low, dangerous hiss escapes his mouth. “Those smug, pretentious bastards. I damn well should have incinerated them.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says weakly. 

“No, angel, I will not calm down or relax or  _ forget _ , or whatever it is that you want me to do. Those assholes don’t deserve the title of angel. They don’t know the meaning of Love, if they felt the need to intimidate the best, most angelic angel in the Host. They don’t deserve you.”

The angel closes his eyes, and turns his head away from Crowley. “I’m not a very good angel, though. They’re right.”

Crowley takes hold of Aziraphale’s chin, and gently turns his head back towards him. “Angel, look at me,” he begs. “Please, open your eyes.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, eyes still screwed tightly shut. 

“Fine, don’t look at me, then. Just listen to me. You are the best being that I have ever met. You are the most caring, angelic, wonderful person, and anyone who can’t see that is blind. Honestly, you’re well shut of them, given the way they’ve treated you.”

Aziraphale blinks his eyes back open. He looks close to tears. “I’m not…”

“Yes, you are,” Crowley insists. “Angel,  _ please _ . Heaven has treated you like you were lower than a speck of dirt for nearly six thousand years. You deserve so much more than that. You deserve what the humans think that Heaven is like.”

“And this  _ doesn’t _ apply to the way Hell has treated you?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley snorts. “It’s  _ Hell _ , angel. It’s supposed to be horrible. No, no, Hell has never tried to previcate on how awful it is. Heaven, on the other hand? You’re supposed to be the good guys- but the only good in that miserable, sterile, unloving place is you, and you’ve been on Earth for six thousand years.”

“But the Almighty…”

“Apparently has very little to do with how Her angels act,” Crowley says, cutting off whatever meager defense Aziraphale might try to put forward of his horrible, abusive former bosses. “You can’t… you can’t simply decide to destroy an angel of the Lord in a quid pro quo with Hell. No angel has that authority, and it’s no less than a major miracle that none of the archangels have Fallen for that stunt. It’s probably more to do with a distinct lack of care on Her part than anything else. Do you know… do you know what Gabriel said to me as you, at your execution?” he asks, voice cracking. 

Aziraphale makes a face, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I can imagine, dear. He did tell me to lose the gut not three days ago.”

Crowley ignores this little pleasantry. He hadn’t wanted to burden the angel with this, but he needs Aziraphale to  _ see _ how much better off he is without the Hosts of Heaven. “He told you, I mean me, not to lecture him about the greater good, because he is the- and I quote- archangel fucking Gabriel. And then he told you to shut up and die already.”

The tears spill over. Crowley wants to kick himself- this was why he hadn’t planned to tell Aziraphale about Gabriel’s words. But he needs the angel to understand just how much better off he is. 

“I’m sorry, angel. Like I said, you deserve so much better,” Crowley says. He brushes the angel’s tears away with a thumb. “Nothing Heaven has done to you represents your worth. You are incredible, and I am beyond lucky that you were the angel on duty at the gate I slithered up to in the Garden. I love you.”

“One might call it. Ineffable,” Aziraphale says weakly, between gasps for air. 

Crowley kisses the sides of his angel’s eyes, then his eyelids, then his forehead and nose. “One might,” he allows. 

“I’m sorry, dear. I do love you,” Aziraphale says. “It’s simply… overwhelming. I should… I should be devastated that I can never return to Heaven, but all I can think is that I’m instead incredibly fortunate to never have to go back. But I also can’t help… I want to miss it. I  _ should  _ miss it. One can’t… you don’t feel the overwhelming Love on Earth the same as you do in Heaven. The Almighty isn’t as present here. But She hasn’t… She must have been absent from Heaven for far longer than I think, because Heaven is so different than it used to be.”

“I’m sorry, angel.”

“Why, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“I’m sorry that you're hurting,” Crowley says. “I’m sorry that you've been treated so poorly. But I’ll never be sorry that you eventually chose me.”

“Oh, my dearest, darling boy. I’ll always choose you, in the end. It may take me a while to catch up, but I will always choose you,” Aziraphale promises. 

Crowley kisses Aziraphale gently on the lips. There’s no heat to it, no urgency or need to prove. It doesn’t last long, either. Crowley curls around his angel protectively, content to convey in touch what the angel still has trouble comprehending in words. 

They fall to silence, contemplating their new freedom and the ways in which their immortal, ceaseless, unchanging lives have now been upended. 

As always, now as in the beginning, they will face it together. 


End file.
